The Ravensdale Ghost
by A. Beaumont
Summary: Sherlock Holmes finds himself cast in the role of a reluctant ghost hunter when an associate of Mycroft's is discovered mysteriously drowned... In the fifth-floor study of a haunted mansion. Sherlock's sense of logic is pushed to its limits as he, John and Molly fight to solve the case before the Ravensdale curse reaches them. Rated M for intense Sherlolly in later chapters :
1. Chapter 1

Sir Mortimus Ravensdale could not sleep. His advancement in years, and the portly, jovial disposition that had settled about him once he had passed his fiftieth year usually allowed for him to be snoozing contentedly in his armchair by about eight p.m. Tonight (the fifth of July, four a.m) preoccupations had carried him anxiously past his usual bedtime and found him now, with the first blue-grey wash of dawn in the sky, sitting at his oxblood chesterfield desk nursing his third whiskey. The drink was good, a rare, vintage Islay, but it did little to ease his mind, or the creeping portent that had unsettled him these past few days. The Ravensdale house had always been a creaky old thing, but of late Mortimus had found himself shaken by its subtle shiftings, clanging pipes, that loose board that even on still nights echoed something that sounded all too much like a footstep, that dripping tap that could never be found...

Mortimus shifted in his chair and passed a broad hand over his face. He took a healthy gulp of the whiskey, allowing its burning golden warmth run over his tongue and willed himself to calm down. He had grown up in this house, he thought. There is nothing here to be frightened of... A memory, long buried, surfaced in his mind suddenly, sharklike. He shook his head. It's nothing, he persuaded himself. Nothing at all.

A sudden creak made him start, slopping whiskey onto his trousers. He cursed, half laughing at himself for his clumsiness, and blotted at the stain with his hankerchief. Another creak made him look up, and the smile froze onto his face.

Mortimus spoke a single word-

"No."

And it was his last.

777

John Watson smiled as he swirled the whiskey in his glass. It wasn't a very good whiskey, but it was _his_ whiskey, and he was going to drink it and enjoy it quietly, without disturbance, in front of the television...

"John!"

John's smile disappeared, and he sighed. He remained silent, hoping against hope that his flatmate would get bored and move onto something else before demanding his presence.

"_John_!"

He gave up.

"What is it?"

His flatmates voice came from his bedroom, becoming more strident by the minute.

"John! My phone is ringing!"

John took a swig of whiskey (Jameson, vile, but one makes do) and heaved himself out of his armchair.

"Do excuse me for a moment," he said to the television (a documentary about the history of London squats) "I have to show a thirty year old child how to use a telephone." He paused, then added ruefully, "Possibly by beating him around the head with it."

"John!"

John Watson stuck his head around the door of his flatmates bedroom with his eyes closed.

"Yes?"

"John, my phone has been ringing for – why are your eyes closed?"

"Because whenever I come in here," John explained, "I am always slightly concerned about what I might see."

He opened one eye.

"Ah," he said, "You see, this is why."

His flatmate was lying face down on the carpet, both hands securely tied behind his back. A battered blackberry lay beside his head, buzzing intermittently.

John pinched the bridge of his nose wearily.

"Dare I ask... How?"

Sherlock Holmes managed to turn his head enough to shoot his friend a murderous look.

"Just answer the phone, John," he said. "The damn thing's been driving me insane for nearly half an hour."

"So I imagine." John picked up the phone, and dropped it again immediately.

"It's wet! Why is your phone wet, Sherlock?"

"I tried to answer it with my mouth."

John grimaced, picked up the buzzing phone again and wiped it on his jeans before answering.

"Hello?"

he covered the mouthpiece, and mouthed "Mycroft" to the bound detective. Sherlock shook his head emphatically.

"I'm afraid he's a little tied up at the moment, Mycroft." John grinned widely at his own joke. "Can you call back later?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Okay. Okay. I'm sure there's no need to- Okay. Goodbye." John hung up.

"A little tied up at the moment?" Sherlock sneered, struggling into a sitting position. "You couldn't resist, could you?"

"Comedy's in my blood," John shrugged. "Now please, please tell me how you got yourself into this situation?"

"The Pruitt case," Sherlock explained. "I was trying to surmise if the girl could have bound her own hands before the fire."

"And?"

"I applied my comprehension of Nodeology to a rather too effective end."

"I see. Would you like me to untie you?"

Sherlock looked up at his flatmate from under a dishevelled lock of dark hair.

"No, I'd like you to leave me here for another hour or two until the circulation in my fingers has completely absconded."

John raised his eyebrows.

"Oh, sarcasm. Perfect for a man in your position, don't you think?"

Sherlock frowned and John relented, going into the kitchen to find a knife.

"Mycroft's coming over," he said when he returned, kneeling to saw at the myriad knots that constricted his flatmates thin wrists. Sherlock groaned.

"Mycroft on a Saturday evening, what joy, what honour."

The last thread gave under the knife and Sherlock began rubbing life back into his wrists.

777

Mycroft Holmes spotted the reddened chafe-marks on his brothers wrists the moment he entered the room and raised his eyebrows.

"Her?" he asked.

Sherlock tightened his lips.

"An experiment."

"Call it what you like."

"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock cut in impatiently. Mycroft nodded to Anthea, his assistant (whom John had been furtively eyeing up over the newspaper he always hid behind in a bid to remain impartial to the Holmes brothers discourse), and she stepped forward to hand Sherlock a file.

"Mortimus Ravensdale," Mycroft said as Sherlock opened the file, "A close personal friend of mine-"

"Friend!" Sherlock muttered incredulously.

"-Associate," Mycroft amended "Has been found dead at his estate in Somerset."

"Foul play suspected?" Sherlock said, leafing through the file. "I presume there's a will involved somehow?"

Mycroft smiled.

"Don't tell me that Ravensdale Estate doesn't trigger _something_, little brother."

"Should it?"

"One of the top ten most haunted stately homes in Britain," John interjected, then cursed himself for getting involved as he found himself fixed by two pairs of piercing eyes. He cleared his throat. "I saw a documentary on it. On BBC two." he added awkwardly.

"John is correct," said Mycroft. "Ravensdale Hall has been the subject of various writings and paranormal investigation since as far back as the 1920's."

Sherlock looked pained.

"Mycroft, don't tell me you've fallen victim to believing this maudlin drivel in your old age."

"I don't," said Mycroft, "But the press do. And none of the local police force in Somerset will go near the place."

"I don't understand," Sherlock dropped the file onto the coffee table. It lay open on a greyscale picture of Ravensdale Hall. "Why are you bringing this to me? Aristocratic old drunks and ghost stories? Dull. I have real work to do."

"Yes," said John, "If you leave now he could tie himself to his own headboard twice before dinner."

Anthea shot him a half-smile and he blushed, retreating back behind his newspaper. Sherlock ignored John's jibe and continued glaring at his brother. Mycroft picked up the photograph of the house and pointed to the top east window.

"Mortimus Ravensdale was found in this room at nine thirty six a.m, after the maid roused his wife for breakfast and Mortimus was not in their bed. A search of the house found his study locked from the inside. The maid and Dorothy Ravensdale called the groundskeeper, who forced the door. Not only was the door locked, but the wood had swelled, as though it had been immersed in water. On entering the room, all three present recounted the same scene: Sir Ravensdale was seated at his desk, and he was found on further investigation to be dead. The windows were shut and bolted from the inside, just like the door. The chimney had been bricked up years earlier, and so could not have been a point of entry."

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, and Mycroft cut him off.

"Mortimus Ravensdale had drowned. Everything in the room was saturated with water that tests showed had identical chemical components to the water of the lake on the grounds, half a mile from the house. Furthermore... Watermarks on the walls seem to show that at some point in the early hours of the morning, the room had been entirely filled with water. Everthing in it was saturated to the core, but had not moved a millimetre. No water had escaped the room. They even found pondweed festooning the chandelier."

Mycroft looked around the room. John was staring at him, open mouthed. Sherlock looked thoughtful. Anthea was texting.

"So, little brother. Any ideas?"

Sherlock glanced up at him.

"Not yet..."

John recognised a familiar spark in the detective's eye. Even if Sherlock had no interest in ghost stories, he was helpless to resist an aberrant case. Sherlock smiled.

"When do we leave?"

777

Molly Hooper woke with a start and squinted at the clock on her bedside locker. The digital numbers blinked six a.m, and her telephone was ringing in the hall. She dragged herself out of bed, dislodging her cat, Toby, who flopped over without waking and began to purr softly in his sleep. It's my bloody week off, Molly thought to herself as she stumbled blearily out of the bedroom. This had better not be Stamford calling me in for the day.

She lifted the phone off its cradle and brought it to her ear.

"Hello?"

"Are you superstitious?"

The low, familiar voice of Sherlock Holmes both brought her immediately to her senses and disarmed her entirely.

"Um, what? Um, I had a tarot card reading once but, you know, they sort of say the same thing for everyone really don't they?" Molly fumbled with the phone and almost dropped it.

"I'll take that as a no. Molly, I need you to accompany John and I on a case. The reason I asked whether or not you are superstitious is because everyone in the town where we are going apparently is, and I presume that includes the local pathologist-if there even is one."

"I see." Molly rubbed her eyes with her free hand. "It's just, it's my week off and-"

"Oh, don't worry about that," Sherlock sounded exasperated. "This case is Mycroft's baby, and he will ensure you are paid quite ridiculously well for your time."

"Okay then. When do we leave?"

"One hour. Come here first, I'll send a taxi."

Sherlock hung up. Molly stood in her hallway and looked around her, disoriented. A moment later she picked up the phone again, and dialled a number.

"Hi, Lucy? It's Molly. Yes, I know, I'm sorry. I was just wondering, could you look after Toby for a while?"

She looked up at the ceiling and blinked.

"I'm not sure how long..."

777

John was loading his bags into what looked like a brand new landrover when Molly's taxi pulled up outside 221b Baker Street.

"Good morning, Molly!" he called as she got out, trailing her suitcase behind her. He looked as tired as she was, but seemed to be in fine spirits. She hugged him.

"You're in a good mood," she commented as he helped her lift her bag (lots of floral tea dresses, two sweaters, a raincoat just in case) into the back of the landrover. John grinned.

"Looking forward to getting out of the city for a few days. Breathe some actual air, you know."

Sherlock appeared at the doorway, carrying a leather overnight bag and wearing his long dark coat against the morning chill. Mrs Hudson fluttered around him like a concerned mother hen.

"Now drive carefully won't you? And make sure not to get too much sun, it's very warm this time of year and you do insist on wearing that big coat..."

"I'll be fine, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock reassured her. He gathered her up for a hug and she spotted Molly over his shoulder.

"Yoo hoo Molly! Look after my boys do you hear?"

"I will!" called Molly and waved. Sherlock kissed his housekeeper on the cheek and tossed his bag to John, who caught it deftly and packed it in with the others.

"Good morning, Molly," said Sherlock as he reached the car. "Backseat?"

"Oh, I don't mind," Molly said awkwardly. Sherlock opened the door for her. Despite his obvious lack of manners, it appeared that years of society training had left Sherlock with some basic social skills. Molly climbed in as gracefully as possible (not very), and Sherlock and John got in the front. Two doors slammed and Sherlock revved the car into gear. The last thing Molly saw before the car rounded the corner of Baker Street was Mrs Hudson standing on the steps, still waving goodbye.

She looked genuinely worried.

777

During the four hour drive to Somerset, Molly learned the following about Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson:

Sherlock will not permit John to play I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles) more than once during the journey.

John Watson, despite being a brilliant doctor, is not at all adept at reading maps.

Sherlock Holmes' photographic memory does not apply to roadsigns seen more than ten metres previous.

John will try to play I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles) more than once during the journey.

Sherlock will retaliate by skimming John's Proclaimers Greatest Hits CD out of the window.

Molly read Wuthering Heights in the back seat and giggled at the boys' bickering. With the gentle motion of car coupled with her early wakeup call, after half an hour she was asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you to everyone who reviewed/added to favourites/added alerts for this! I do hope I don't disappoint. This is my first fic, so the encouragement is gold. You lovely people! **

**I'm afraid this chapter is mostly filler. Ya gotta get to where ya need to be. The proper fun kicks off soon. Oh, and I forgot to put a disclaimer on the last chapter, but needless to say I don't own Sherlock, Molly or John. Or Mycroft. Or Mrs. Hudson. I think that's it. And I'm not getting paid for this. Unfortunately.**

** Cheers!**

If John Watson could have chosen one word to describe the Ravensdale estate, it would be... Sprawling. Two words? Sprawling and Schizophrenic. As the land rover rounded the last corner of the winding, tree lined driveway and the house (could you call it that?) came into view, John's first thought was that the photograph in the file came nowhere close to doing it justice. The photograph had shown only the central part of the building, a large, grey Georgian mansion, but it had failed to take in what surrounded it. Sherlock, in the driver's seat, noticed John's expression and explained:

"The main part of the house was built in 1753 by Nicholas Ravensdale as a country house for his family. Each generation that moved in added something else. They kept building extensions and features and what you see before you now..." Sherlock wrinkled his nose, "Is veritable timeline of British architecture. Or a lesson in bad taste."

John thought it was glorious.

Flanking the house were Victorian extensions, vast, extending beyond the mansion and almost overwhelming it, fairytale-like structures in red brick and glass. One had a turret. On the left side, another red brick building grew out of the Victorian one, long and small-windowed, crowned with a brass weathervane. A winding cast iron staircase led to the door, oddly located on the second floor. On the other side rose a neo-gothic tower, almost dwarfing the main house. Everything was covered in ivy.

A fountain in front of the building pattered softly around the feet of the statue of a woman, bending, washing her bronze hair. More statues were scattered haphazardly around the entrance, their asymmetrical placing giving them an eerily naturalistic look, as though a group of revellers had been frozen where they stood. Outside the gothic tower, two palm trees swayed softly in the breeze.

As the car crunched over the gravel of the driveway and came to a stop beside the fountain, John caught sight of what looked like a pagoda about two hundred yards away from the main building. He shook his head with a smile as he climbed out of the land rover and stretched his cramped legs. This place was insane, and he loved it. Still, he had to admit there was something forboding about it. Even in the bright warmth of a July day the stone facade radiated pure cold, and the sunlight glinting off the many windows only served to give the house an amaurotic, baleful look. John shook off the creeping feeling of apprehension and opened the back door to wake Molly.

She was folded over like a ragdoll in the back seat, her head resting on an open book. Her light brown hair fanned out over the seat, hiding her face. John smiled fondly. As he leaned forward to gently shake her, Sherlock pounded on the window with his fist and Molly awoke with a startled gasp.

"Wake up Molly, we're here!" he bellowed. John sighed and went around the back to help him with the bags.

Molly, wide eyed and dishevelled, climbed down from the landrover as the boys bickered over the luggage. Looking up at the Ravensdale mansion, she felt as though she were still in a dream. She met the blank gaze of a statue and wrapped her light jacket tighter around herself, shivering in the summer heat.

777

A heavy brass bell-pull hung in the doorway, but as Sherlock reached for it it the door creaked open. In the doorway stood a pretty, dark haired girl with sallow skin and full, pouting rosebud lips. She was wearing a maid's uniform. John's jaw unhinged itself.

"Good afternoon," she said, her low voice tinged with the slightest hint of a French accent. "Mr. Holmes and party? Madame has been expecting you. Let me show you to the drawing room."

"She's from _France_!" John muttered to Sherlock as they followed the maid through the gloomy entrance hall. "She's an actual french maid! I didn't know they even still _wore_ those uniforms!"

"Auvergne to be exact," Sherlock said absently, his eyes darting as he took in their surroundings, "And as for the uniform... The upper classes will retain their pretensions. Ah, Lady Ravensdale!" he exclaimed as they entered the vast drawing room. A thin, straight-backed woman rose from her chair to greet them. She was in her mid sixties, with a shrewd, wrinkled face and bright hazel eyes. Her steel grey hair was pulled back in a chingnon. She strode forward and shook Sherlock's outstretched hand firmly.

"Welcome, Mr. Holmes. I trust you had a pleasant journey?"

"Yes, thank you. This is my assistant John Watson and Molly Hooper... My pathologist."

"It's a pleasure to meet you." Lady Ravensdale greeted them both in turn. John was disarmed by her strong handshake and grinned at her nervously.

"Do please take a seat, I shall have Marion fetch some tea."

777

Molly had been surprised when the tea arrived not in bone china, but in sturdy mismatched mugs. She wrapped her hands around hers gratefully. Despite the heat outside, the drawing room held a slight chill. She listened as Sherlock quizzed Lady Ravensdale about her husband.

"Mortimus was a good man. He retired last year. I had never seen him happier."

"Lady Ravensdale," Sherlock leaned forward in his chair, "Can you think of anyone who may have held a grudge against your husband? I know, stupid question – he was a politician wasn't he? But is there anyone in particular?"

Lady Ravensdale smiled sadly.

"Nobody who could have gotten into a locked room and filled it with lakewater. And please, my name is Dorothy."

Sherlock sat back and steepled his hands under his chin.

"It is impossible of course," he mused, "Completely implausible, and yet somebody managed to do it, which makes it absolutely possible..." he fixed Lady Ravensdale with his piercing grey eyes. "At this juncture I am not so much interested in who as _how_."

"Maybe the room wasn't filled with water," John volunteered. "Maybe someone just made it look like it was."

"Thank you John, I had yet to consider that possibility."

John looked proud until he caught Sherlock's eye.

"Oh."

"Anyhow," Sherlock rose from his chair, "The sooner I get to the actual crime scene the better. There's only so much I can deduce down here. The fact that you and your husband haven't shared a bed for the past five years, for example. And that you changed into that black dress for our benefit."

Lady Ravensdale chuckled.

"I loved my husband, . But after forty years of marriage the nature of love changes. It evolves. Towards the end I loved him as a friend, almost a brother. Of course you must think me a suspect, but you must know I would not have harmed that kind man in any way."

Sherlock held her eye for a moment longer before looking away.

"I will bring you to the study, but first you must get settled into your rooms." Lady Ravensdale set down her mug and stood up.

"Your quarters will be in the west wing, the converted stables. I do hope you will be comfortable there. I have had Marion dress the rooms to your are enough power points for any equipment you may have brought to aid you -"

"Equipment?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"Yes. I expect you have the usual appliances. EMF detectors, infrared cameras..."

"Madame," Sherlock drew himself to his full height and looked down his nose at her, "I am a detective, _not_ a ghost hunter."

Lady Ravensdale returned his gaze steadily.

"Mr. Holmes. I realise that your reputation hinges upon logic. In this case, however, you may be advised to keep an open mind." She gestured to their surroundings. "This estate has housed its fair share of sceptics. And I must assure you that none of them left with quite the same perspective. Your brother was close to my Mortimus. He insisted upon sending you here. I do not know what he expected you to find. My husband was not killed by a mortal hand."

Molly's spine tingled. She gave a small shudder. Sherlock registered this and he shot her a withering look.

"Now," Lady Ravensdale beckoned to the maid, "I shall have Marion show you to your rooms. You are of course granted free rein of the house. Do please make any explorations you deem necessary to uncovering the answer to my husband's demise."


	3. Chapter 3

"Well, now this is very interesting." Sherlock Holmes exclaimed as he opened the door to the study where Mortimus Ravensdale had met his end. He swept the room quickly with a look before entering. John hesitated at the door as Sherlock began his familiar ritual of examination. He had been on myriads of unusual crime scenes with Sherlock in the past, but he had to admit that this one topped them all. The room smelled stagnant, like a fishpond in high summer. The windows were clouded with dry algae. Sherlock had switched into full analysis mode. He was darting from place to place muttering, his slide magnifier in one gloved hand. John looked up at the ceiling and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. The chandelier was indeed, as Mycroft had said, draped in pond weed. The effect was odd, almost pretty, but there was something so haunting about it that John felt an immediate impulse to leave the room. He shrugged the feeling off until he turned to look at Sherlock, and it returned threefold.

The brilliant detective was standing in the middle of the room, his hands by his sides. He looked utterly, utterly perplexed.

John couldn't remember ever having seen Sherlock appear so lost.

"And ideas?" he asked hopefully.

"Ahm..." Sherlock turned distractedly, lingering on a thought. "Yes," he said finally, straightening up and masking his confusion in one easy movement.

"There are a number of possibilities, obviously it will take time to isolate the correct one."

"Oh," John relaxed. "Great."

Sherlock took off one of his gloves and placed his hand flat to the wall. His brow furrowed.

"What is it?" John asked.

"Still wet..." Sherlock turned to him. "It's been two weeks, and the walls are still wet."

"But that doesn't make any sense."

"Of course it doesn't." Sherlock took a sample bag and a capped scalpel from his pocket and began to scrape away a fragment of plaster.

"Yet."

777

Molly was running a bath when John and Sherlock returned to the converted stable. It was the long redbrick building they had seen on arrival. Molly heard them banging up the iron stairs to the door, talking, Sherlock's low voice carrying better than John's. Molly could make out the words 'whiskey' 'chlorophyll' and 'idiot'. She turned off the tap and tested the water.

The doorway to the stables led onto a Mezzanine floor above the large, open plan sitting room and kitchen. Spiral stairs led down to it. Three ensuite bedrooms led off from the main room, but only the palatial communal bathroom had a tub. Molly had practically squealed when she saw it, deep and clawfooted, standing in the middle of the room. It certainly beat the cramped plastic one in her flat.

Molly slipped off the white terrycloth robe that had come with the room (amazing) and climbed into the bath, gasping as her skin reacted to the steaming water. She lay back full length and rested her head against the rim of the tub. She had brought a book in with her, but for the moment she lay still, eyes closed, letting the heat work the tension from her body. The room was silent, save for the low hum of voices in the other room, and the tap dripping with a steady 'plink' into the water at her feet.

'plink'

'plink'

Molly's relaxed expression began to shift slowly toward discontent.

'plink'

This was a form of torture in some cultures, wasn't it? That damn tap...

'plink'

Molly's eyes snapped open and she surged forward in annoyance to tighten the guilty faucet, and stopped. The water-stained brass tap wasn't the source of the irritating leak. The water dripping into the bathwater was coming from above. Each droplet stained the water with a tinge of murky greenish brown. Molly wrinkled her nose in distaste. She looked up. Sure enough, a large damp stain in the ceiling above the bathtub was weeping droplets of dirty water. Leaky tank, Molly thought, as she heaved herself up and began to towel off. There was a definite stagnant smell from the water on her skin. She would have to shower in the ensuite before dressing. How revolting... An ominous creak made her glance up at the ceiling once more. The damp patch had begun to swell. Molly reached for her bathrobe, and the lights went out.

777

Sherlock was unpacking his equipment when he heard Molly scream. He registered John moving past him at speed, headed towards the bathroom. Sherlock dropped a test tube and followed. He arrived at the bathroom door just as John threw his full weight against it. The door buckled slightly, but didn't give. Molly's hysterical screams continued behind it.

"Molly, unlock the door!" John shouted. Sherlock pushed him out of the way.

"I'm almost certain she would have, if she were capable." He muttered, before hitting the door hard, shoulder on. The lock splintered and suddenly his arms were full of warm, damp, trembling flesh as Molly careened out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel and fell straight into him. She clawed at his chest, eyes wide.

"There's somebody in there! Please get me... There was somebody in there with me, the lights-"

"Wait here." Sherlock took the distraught pathologist by the shoulders and gently but firmly pushed her towards John.

The bathroom was still in darkness when Sherlock entered, but with the vague light filtering in around the door his eyes began to adjust in seconds. He scanned the room quickly.

Only points of entry: Door (discarded, locked from inside). Window (high, ten foot, wall smooth, no handholds).

'plink'

Sherlock's eyes flicked to the bathtub. It was still full. The water was dark, clouded. Sherlock's nose twitched. Similar olfactory characteristics as the crime scene. Identical, even.

The surface of the water was undisturbed save for a droplet breaking the surface rhythmically, 'plink plink plink plink plink' Sherlock looked up at the dark ceiling to find the source of the droplets and abruptly, they ceased. He looked back down at the bathwater just as a single bubble rose to the surface. Without a moment's hesitation he plunged both arms into the tub.

777

John led Molly to the couch. She was shaking violently, her wet hair dripping down her back. He sat her down and took her face in his hands.

"Molly," he said gently, "Tell me exactly what happened."

He felt her pulse racing under his fingers. Her pupils were wide with fear.

"There was a leak in the roof. I don't know. The lights went out and then... I couldn't see a thing and-"

Molly took a deep, shuddering breath.

"There was... Someone there. In the dark with me. I tried to get to the door and they pulled me back, pulled my hair, they were strong. Is Sherlock in there? Tell him to be careful, please!"

"Sherlock!" John called.

Sherlock appeared around the doorway. He was soaked.

"Hmm?"

"Did you find them?"

Sherlock looked perplexed.

"Who?"

John and Molly looked up at him.

"Oh." He shrugged. "There's nobody in there."

"But I felt it," Molly protested, "I felt somebody touch me!"

Sherlock approached her. He lifted her wet hair away from her neck.

"Doubtless." He said softly. John craned his neck to see what Sherlock was looking at. On Molly's thin shoulder was an unmistakable pattern. Fingerprint bruises just beginning to redden her pale skin.

"Excuse me."

Sherlock turned on his heel and left the room. Molly heard his door slam. John met her frightened eyes.

"Tea?"

777

Sherlock let his head fall back against the door and shut his eyes. He breathed deeply for a minute then straightened up, running his hands through his wet hair. His mind was racing. He couldn't remember feeling this strange before. His brain was taking all the usual routes, exploring every possibility, but at the end of each corridor, instead of a feasible solution, lay a perplexing blank. It made him feel sick, like missing a step in the dark.

And there was something else too.

Clouding his mind was an all too recent image he couldn't seem to shake. Molly, her face pale, her eyes like molten pools, the way her skin felt when she collapsed into his arms... He had taken her fine-boned shoulders in his hands. They felt so fragile, and so small. Sherlock looked down at his hands, and was surprised to see them trembling. He raised an eyebrow.

Interesting reaction.

He closed his eyes again. The image of the delicate nape of her neck when he touched her hair was burned into his consciousness. It was affecting his focus. He needed to delete it.

After a few more deep breaths, Sherlock opened his eyes. The image had faded comfortably into the background, though it did take more effort than he would like to admit.

777

Molly was sitting on the couch fully clothed when Sherlock entered the sitting room. Her and John were drinking tea.

"Coming?" Sherlock asked, taking his coat from the coat rack.

"Where?" John put down his cup.

"I'm going to the lake."


	4. Chapter 4

The walk to the lake should have been a pleasant one. It was still warm, the sun lower in the sky but still casting a beautiful golden light over the grounds. Dragonflies zipped through the overgrown grass. Despite the idyllic surroundings a heavy atmosphere had settled over all of them. John couldn't shake off the uncertain creeping feeling that had come over him when he witnessed Sherlock's confusion in the study. Molly was quiet, compulsively touching the bruises on her shoulder, and Sherlock was projecting an air of 'don't touch me, don't even talk to me' so effectively that the other two stayed at least ten paces behind him the whole way.

The lake was a vast expanse of still water almost a half mile from the main house. A small wooden jetty led from a boat house on its banks, and an ancient row boat with peeling blue paint bobbed gently in the water beside it. The smell of the lake, that same greenish, stagnant smell as the study and the bathroom after Molly's attack was amplified by the warmth of the day.  
"Nice down here, isn't it?" John commented with a forced brightness to Molly. She smiled weakly.  
"Do we have to stay in that building tonight?" she asked him. "I don't think I feel safe there. There must be more spare bedrooms in that place."  
John reached out and squeezed her arm reassuringly.  
"I'll ask."  
"John!" Sherlock called from the end of the jetty.  
"I overheard," he said quietly when John reached him. "We're staying at the stables. We can't feed into her hysteria."  
"Hysteria?" John looked at him incredulously. "Sherlock, the girl is bruised to pieces! You saw that..."  
"The power of the mind over the flesh is far greater than most believe," Sherlock muttered, kneeling to scoop lake water into a vial. "You're a doctor. You must have read at least one case study of some wretched individual convincing their own body into ruins."  
"I don't think that-"  
"Oh for god's sake." Sherlock straightened up and glanced over at Molly, sitting crosslegged by the boat house pulling up tufts of grass. He lowered his voice.  
"The true ascendancy of hysteria is well documented. The witch trials in Salem, girls found bite marks and scratches on their skin... Patients in psychiatric hospitals were able to make writing appear on their backs under observation with their hands restrained... It's all there, John. Molly is more susceptible than I thought. The house is getting to her."  
"You really think so?"  
"Of course." Sherlock looked annoyed. "What else could it be? I examined that room. There was no way in. The lights went out, she panicked. Those bloody ghost stories that Lady Ravensdale was feeding us in the drawing room must have got inside her head. Either she did it to herself or it's psychosomatic."  
"Do you think we should send her home?"  
"No." Sherlock said, a little too quickly. John raised his eyebrows at him. "It might be useful to observe her reactions," he amended. "Whatever Somatoform disorder she is clearly suffering from may well hold the answer to the effect this place seems to have on apparently sane people."  
"is that... Ethical?"  
Sherlock looked confused.  
"Of course." John sighed. "Right. She stays. I'll keep an eye on her."

777

Back at the stable building, Sherlock went straight to work analyzing the samples of lake water alongside the plaster fragments from the study. The open plan living area was more than large enough for John and Molly to hold a hushed conversation on the other side of the room without disturbing the detective.  
"Do we have to?" Molly looked at John pleadingly, her voice practically a whisper.  
"Just one more night." John was apologetic. He took Molly's small hand in his. "I'll be just across the hall. I'll leave my door open. If anything happens just wake me up."  
"Sherlock doesn't believe me does he?" Molly's eyes were downcast now, her long eyelashes grazing her cheeks. "He must think I'm insane."  
"No, no..." John said weakly. He glanced up in time to catch Sherlock's brief knowing look from across the room before he returned to his administrations. Damn, the man had the hearing of a bat.  
"Do _you_ think I'm insane?"  
"I think... I think that this house has a funny effect on people. I haven't felt quite right since we got here myself." John gently thumbed Molly's cardigan away from her shoulder.  
"And I believe these."  
The bruises had turned a dark, angry purple colour. There was no way, John thought, that they were psychosomatic.

777

John went to bed at midnight, leaving Molly curled up on the sofa reading her book and Sherlock muttering to himself over his microscope. He pointedly left his bedroom door open, and shot Molly a reassuring smile before disappearing inside. Molly and Sherlock remained in uncomfortable silence together for another half hour until it became unbearable. Molly caught Sherlock's eye and smiled. He looked away quickly and cleared his throat.  
"Right." He stood up abruptly. "I'm going to bed. If you experience another 'episode' during the night don't hesitate to wake John. Goodnight."  
His bedroom door slammed and Molly was alone. For some reason she found it more of a comfort to be in the living area than her bedroom. She dragged the duvet off her bed and lay down on the sofa.

John's gentle snoring from behind his half open door provided her with enough semblance of company and reassurance to let her eyes grow heavy. Sleep came with unexpected swiftness.  
Soon, the only sounds in the room were John's quiet snores and, from the bathroom, the gentle dripping of a tap.

777

Sherlock couldn't pinpoint when, or how the dream had begun. He couldn't even remember falling asleep. This wasn't unusual, he often drove his body to such levels of exhaustion that he had been known to pass out unexpectedly. But he rarely dreamt. And never like this.  
The first image to rise in his unconscious mind was Molly. Beneath him. And a sensation of aching desire so overpowering that he groaned out loud in his sleep.  
Her pale wrists, white as skinned switches as he held them down against the sheets, the thrust and want of his own body - I could break you, he thought, and his head filled with milky confusion.  
So much. So, so much.  
He moaned into her neck, and dream-Molly arched to meet him. The finger marks on her shoulder seemed to glow.  
Why?  
The rational part of his brain surfaced, gasping for air.  
Why now? Yes, there had been stirrings before, feelings for the girl bordering on affection, but they had always been so easy to shake off. But now, in this house, under a veil of heavy sleep (that in itself unusual) these lustful thoughts overwhelmed him.  
Sherlock moved fitfully in his sleep, struggling to escape the dream.

You've been drugged, his rationality screamed at him through foggy layers of sleep and arousal. Yes! That must explain it. It's Baskerville all over again...  
Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he sat straight up in bed, breathing hard. He ran his hands through his hair roughly, remnants of the dream clinging to him like wraiths. His face felt warm. There was a dizzy fluttering sensation low in his stomach, slowly ebbing away as he came to himself. Sherlock noticed as an afterthought that between his legs he was rock hard.  
God. How disgustingly human. How predictable.

His cheeks flushed as he registered an urge to touch, to bring himself to shuddering release. It felt like a nicotine craving, but deeper. Cocaine? More chaotic even than that, an irrational desperate want. And more than that - much more - he wanted her.  
What drug had undone him in this way? Sherlock thought back over what he had consumed since arriving at the House. No food obviously, just water, tea, he had touched the walls in the study though, could it be absorbed through the skin? Was it in the air?  
If it had affected him it would have gotten to the others as well. He had to wake John and Molly. Actually, he amended, perhaps not Molly. Rising from the bed had brought his attention back to the hardness in his pants. Until he worked out what was causing this uncharacterised appetence he needed to avoid her as much as possible. Right now, he had to sit quietly and wait for the inopportune protrusion to go away.  
Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed deeply as his brain fought to control unfamiliar levels of prurience.  
After seven minutes of meditation, Sherlock could at least trust himself to be able to walk.

777

John lay still. Perhaps if he lay quite still enough, he thought, he could stop it from happening. He could always tell, in the past, when he was going to have one of THOSE dreams. Like a migraine aura he would sense a vignette of true darkness at the edge of things, and then a sudden inrush of sound and light, like a train emerging from a tunnel.  
The stillness didn't help. He knew it wouldn't. And suddenly he was there.

Another dream about the war.

In the dreams, blood was a colour that painters fantasised about. The brightest, most perfect red imaginable. Screams were magnified. They left a trail in the air, you could see it.  
Just a dream. That's all.  
The fear. You didn't feel it at the time, because adrenaline lifted you up and you didn't feel a thing really, until later. The fear, and the pain in his shoulder. They came after the fact. And oh, he could feel it now.  
The thumping of his heartbeat was too loud, it hovered in the air above him like a target, pulsing and throwing out ribbons of light. If they see my heart, he thought, I'm dead. In the dreams, sound was visible too. That was how it felt out there. So very exposed. Too aware of the frailty of bones and flesh. The panic was rising now. John tossed, murmuring in his sleep. Please let me wake up before-  
Two hands grasped his shoulders and shook him violently. John awoke with a start to see Sherlock's pale face staring down at him.  
He had never been quite so happy to see him.

"You had it too?" Sherlock hissed.  
"Wh... What?" John muttered, still half asleep.  
"You were thrashing about, moaning, you dreamt it too, didn't you? There's something in the water, that must be it, some kind of aphrodisiac..." Sherlock had left John's bedside to pace around the room. John watched him, bewildered.  
"Aphrodisiac? Sherlock, what are you talking about?"  
"The dream! The dream you were having, what was it about? No need for details, obviously.."  
"The war." John answered quietly. "It's been ages since I had one of those. Anxiety dreams, you know. I suppose being in a strange place, coupled with what happened to Molly, maybe that set it off."  
"Oh." Sherlock stopped pacing.  
John yawned and rubbed his eyes.  
"Sherlock... Not that I'm not glad you woke me up, but what made you come in here? Was I really making that much noise?"  
"Ah. Yes." Sherlock seemed to gather his bearings for a minute. "The door was open," he added, gesturing vaguely. "Well, goodnight!"  
Sherlock turned to leave, just as an almighty crash resounded from the living room.  
John leaped out of bed to follow Sherlock. The sight that greeted them as they left the bedroom made the hairs stand up on the back of John's neck.

Molly was standing in the centre of the room, her hair obscuring her face. She held her arms at an odd angle, bent at the elbow and slightly contorted. Her dress was torn at the shoulder, and the bruises there looked darker still. She was soaked to the skin. But it wasn't Molly that made John freeze where he stood and Sherlock murmur "How in the hell..."

Every piece of furniture in the room had been flung to the perimeters as though there had been an explosion in the centre. Two heavy chesterfield couches lay at angles against the wall. The mahogany coffee table was split down the centre over by the kitchen. In the middle of the chaos, Molly wrapped her arms around herself and screamed. The sound was ragged, inhuman. She dropped to her knees and spoke.

"He took her to the stables to do it. Here. Here. He did it here. He took her here to do it."

She repeated it like a mantra, over and over, until her voice rose again and she was screaming the words.  
John rushed to her side.  
"Molly. Molly, can you hear me?"  
He took hold of her shoulders and her head fell back. Her eyes were blank, only her lips moved. The scream had dropped to a quiet murmur.  
"He took here here. Here. He took her to the stables to do it."  
John looked up at Sherlock.  
"She's not conscious. I mean, I think she's sleep walking. Sort of. Night terrors."  
Sherlock knelt beside her and took Molly's face in his hands.  
"Wake. Up." he commanded.

Molly's lips stopped moving and her eyes fluttered closed. They opened again a moment later, dull with sleep.  
"What are you two... Am I... How did I get out here?"  
"Molly," Sherlock said urgently, "What's the last thing you can remember?"  
Molly blinked.  
"Oh, that's right, I fell asleep on the sofa." She pointed to where the sofa had been. Sherlock watched panic register on her face as she finally took in the state of the room, and the fact that she was soaking wet.  
"What happened to me?" she asked tremulously.  
"Funny, that," Sherlock helped her to her feet. "Was just about to ask you the same thing."


	5. Chapter 5

**I apologise for the delay dears, I've been very busy. This update is shorter than usual but another will follow soon, I promise. As always, thank you for the lovely reviews.**

**Adrianna Xx**

Molly lay on John's bed and shivered. John had wrapped her in his duvet and tenderly, if incompetently, tried to dry her hair. He had gone to wake Lady Ravensdale, leaving Sherlock investigating the ruins of the sitting room with strict instruction to keep an eye on Molly.

Molly pulled the duvet around her and curled up smaller.

"What's happening to me?" She whispered.

Sherlock appeared in the doorway.

"What?"

Molly raised her head.

"Nothing. I... I don't know what's happening to me."

"You had a nightmare." said Sherlock dismissively.

"But how did all the chairs get... Everywhere? Why am I wet?"

Sherlock hesitated a moment before entering the room and sitting in the armchair opposit the bed.

"Tell me what you dreamed about." he said, steepling his fingers under his chin. Molly shut her eyes.

"I can't remember."

"Yes you can. You spoke, in your sleep. Do you remember that?"

Molly shook her head without opening her eyes. Sherlock sighed exasperatedly.

"Think." He ordered.

Molly remembered.

She had been in a room in the house that she had never seen before, but it was familiar somehow. How did she even know it was in this house? She just... Did. She knew that room like a childhood home, and she had no idea why. It was... A low, windowless room, it had a bed and a table with a chair... There was a girl there, standing by the table, leaning on it with one hand. A nightdress. She was wearing a nightdress. She had stared at Molly with empty eyes as her belly began to swell. Like that film of the fox rotting in stop motion, its body seething with maggots, seeming to breathe... Molly watched the girl. Pregnant. Three months, four, five, six. The girl stayed silent, staring, and on the seventh month blood began to pour from her eyes. Eight. The girl had stepped forward, jerkily, her hands, palm up, raised to Molly. She had remembered thinking 'it's a dream, don't be frightened, just a dream, that's all' when the girl pitched forward silently and fell... Into her? Then the walls exploded with water, and suddenly Molly was standing in the converted stables but it was still just stables and she was-

"NO!"

Molly screamed and thrashed against the hands that were holding her shoulders and shaking her, hard.

"Molly! Molly, for god's sake!"

Her eyes snapped open to see Sherlock's face above her, showing the closest semblance of concern that he was capable of.

"What do you remember?" he asked urgently.

Molly took deep breaths, trying to calm the frantic fluttering of her heart. Her fingers were digging into Sherlock's arms, hard, but he didn't seem to notice. She relaxed her grip and sat back against the pillows.

"I was in a room..." she began.

777

John approached the door of the main house. Dawn was beginning to break on the horizon and the grass beneath his feet was wet with dew. He climbed the stone steps and rang the doorbell. The sound echoed through the house, and John was surprised to hear footsteps approaching the door almost immediately. He had expected to see the maid, but the door creaked open to reveal Lady Ravensdale, fully dressed and wide awake.

"Come in." she said. "Something happened, didn't it?"

777

"I'm glad it was you who came to me, and not him," Lady Ravensdale said when John was installed in an armchair by the fire. She handed him a mug of tea. John took it gratefully.

"I wanted to speak with you instead of him because, quite frankly, it's pointless."

John sighed.

"Yes, I've heard that before alright."

"What happened to you all tonight..." There was real concern in Lady Ravensdales eyes, "While not unheard of here, is rare. I would advise you to leave."

She settled back into her armchair and picked up her tea.

"But I can tell that you will not."

John's brow furrowed.

"How do you know what happened?"

Lady Ravensdale looked at him directly for a long time. The ticking of a clock filled the room. Eventually she spoke.

"I heard a noise from the stables. The house has been particularly tempestuous tonight. I imagine it moved the furniture. Is the girl alright? Marion told me she is susceptible."

"Hold on..." John took a comforting gulp of tea. "I'm afraid I'm not entirely certain what you're talking about. Marion said... What?"

"Marion is a seer. A witch. She can observe things that are not quite of this plane."

"Right." John looked despondently into his mug. "Right. And you said the house was..."

"Tempestuous. Unsettled. It was clear that something would happen tonight." Lady Ravensdale leaned forward suddenly and took John's hand.

"This house feeds off lust, fear and isolation." She said quietly. "It will discover things in a person that they thought long hidden, or lost, or forgotten with purpose. It seeks weakness and exploits it."

John stared at her, open mouthed. Despite himself, a shiver clawed its way up his spine.

Lady Ravensdale sat back and cracked a wry smile.

"You must think me mad. You _are_ welcome here as long as you wish. You can take my advice, or leave it. Even though you don't believe that there is anything paranormal behind tonights occurrence, I had to warn you. Or at the very least try."

"It's not that I don't..." John searched for the words. "I know that what happened can be explained. It must. I'm a doctor, a medical doctor, I don't believe in anything otherworldly at all but... But I've never seen anything quite like this." he finished lamely.

"You will find your beliefs held in question further if you choose to stay here." Lady Ravensdale stood up to stoke the fire. "I will prepare the guest rooms in the East wing for you all at least. It may be marginally safer there. And please..." She turned to face John and took his hand again.

"Please keep an eye on the girl."

777

Molly finished recounting her dream and looked up at Sherlock. He was sitting next to her on the bed, but angled away from her slightly, his body language communicating discomfort.

She held his gaze, though it almost hurt to do it. His eyes were grey then green then blue, the colour always changed in the light but the gaze itself was constant, icy needles, a hint of derision. Steady. That look... God. He was staring, but keeping his distance. He thought she was crazy, and it disgusted him. Damn him. She wouldn't drop her eyes. Molly lifted her chin in defiance, but she couldn't stop her lower lip from trembling, so she bit down on it hard in reprimand. She saw Sherlock's eyes dart to her mouth, then back, and something shifted in his face.

"I am not insane." Molly said firmly.

A painful silence passed between them, broken gratefully by the sound of the front door opening.

"John!" Sherlock practically shouted, leaping off the bed. He collided with John at the doorway.

"Sherlock, Jesus! Did something happen?" John reeled back against the doorframe and Sherlock grabbed him by the lapels to stop him from falling.

"No, not a thing!" Sherlock answered brightly. "Any developments with Lady Ravensdale?"

"Yes, ahm... Sort of." John looked over at Molly. "You alright?"

Molly shrugged. "Same."

"You'll be happy to hear this, Dorothy's got some new rooms set up for us, up at the main house."

"First name terms," Sherlock muttered. "Cosy."

"That is unless..." John went to sit on the bed, "Unless you want to leave. We can drive you to the village to catch a bus. It would be perfectly understandable if you didn't want to stay."

"No." Said Molly firmly.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I want to see this out to the end."

777

The new rooms in the East wing were far less modern than the stables. They had a dusty opulence to them, full of beautiful things left to disrepair. All three had gigantic four poster beds. Molly set her bag down on hers and opened the sash window to let in some air. The morning chill had disappeared to be replaced by an oppressive dead heat.

She had wanted to go home, more than anything. But there was no way she would let Sherlock think her a coward. She remembered the look he had given her, of lofty concern but something else too. He had seemed so uncomfortable around her.

Molly opened her bag and pulled out the lightest dress she had brought. A white cotton wisp of a thing, she pulled it on over her head and sighed with relief as the cool fabric caressed her skin. Better. Slightly.

Maybe he fears insanity, she mused as she gathered her hair back into a plait. He puts so much emphasis on the mind, he values his own so highly, maybe the slightest hint of madness unhinges him.

_Was_ she going crazy? A nightmare could be dismissed as just that, a bad dream, that's all...

What about the disorder of the room though? The heavy chesterfields tossed like dollhouse furniture, the mahogany table thrown so hard that the thick dense wood had split – how could that be explained away? An incredibly localised earthquake? A sort of anti-neutron bomb that left people unscathed but could only affect... Chesterfields? It seemed as though they were all trying not to acknowledge it. It was too much, too strange to be excused...


	6. Chapter 6

**Hello lovely, lovely followers. I am very sorry for my long absence. How very rude of me! Here's a new chapter to keep you satiated for just a little while. The next one is where shit starts really kicking off.**

** Adriana X**

"So?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked up from his microscope. John was leaning in the doorframe.

"So... What?"

The doctor came in and sat on the bed.

"Oh by all means come in, I'm not even slightly busy," muttered Sherlock, adjusting the fine focus.

"So, what's your theory on last night?"

Sherlock sighed and turned away from the microscope.

"There are a few loose ends to tie up but other than that it's quite obvious don't you think?"

"Ahm... No, not really. You woke me up in the middle of the night, then we heard all the furniture in the place being thrown around the room and Molly was acting as though she was possessed or something..."

"No, I don't believe the furniture was moved at the moment we heard the crash." Sherlock interrupted him.

"What?"

"I imagine we were drugged, some variety of oneirogenic airborne general anaesthetic to keep us in a dead sleep while someone, or more likely some _ones _moved the furniture around. Quinuclidinyl benzilate was my first thought, or a variant of it. It took time to work, characteristic of that strain of deleriant. Then of course, there was the disturbing and unusually vivid dreams. Either a side effect of the nerve agent in the air or more likely, This."

Sherlock held up a page torn out of a book. John took it.

"Sherlock, where did you get this? You didn't take it out of one of the books in the library, did you?"

"Just read it"

John sighed.

"Calea Zacatechichi." He read. The rest was in Spanish. "What?"

Sherlock gave him That Look.

"It's a herb found in South American medicine," He explained. "Also known as Leaf of God, or the dream herb. Used in witchcraft for divination. And in certain other circles, recreationally. It causes the user to experience intensely graphic dreams."

"That makes sense." John said slowly. "It was in the air too?"

"No, it was in the tea."

"The tea? Are you sure?"

"Can't be positive until I test for it."

"But that means that Lady Ravensdale..."

"Drugged us. Yes. As it happens, I did take that page from a book in the library. A book on witchcraft and herbalism, that had been handled in the past three days."

"How...?"

Sherlock closed his eyes in exasperation.

"Do you even have to ask anymore?"

John feigned an expression of hurt.

"I thought you like it when I ask."

Sherlock ignored him and continued.

"After we were incapacitated then something, most likely one of the Chesterfields that was balanced precariously fell and made a crash. Somebody wants us to believe there is a supernatural presence in this house, John. The murderer, or murderers, wants to keep us in the dark and the local police scared stiff - I think its safe to assume that the killing of Mortimus Ravensdale was a group effort..."

"I'm confused about one thing," John said, "_You_ were the one who woke me last night. You passed through the sitting room to get to my bedroom. How could you, Sherlock Holmes, the most ridiculously observant man in the known universe fail to notice that the room had been turned over?"

"It was dark," said Sherlock dismissively, "I was still disorientated."

"Sherlock..."

"Hmm?"

"Molly told me she dreamt about that girl, I dreamt about the war... What did you dream about?"

"Can't remember." Sherlock said quickly. "I just know it was... Disorientating. Here." He handed John a small plastic specimen cup.

"What's this?"

Sherlock glanced at him.

"I need a urine sample. To test for the presence of any abnormal chemicals."

John shrugged and took the cup.

"We really do have a special kind of friendship."

"No we don't."

777

Molly wandered along the banks of the lake in a daze. She hadn't slept even close to enough, and the warmth of the hazy sun was soaking into her bones. She felt shaken but calm, the events of the previous night seemed more benign in the daylight. It was funny, the way darkness amplified everything. Even Sherlock coming into her room before she left and asking awkwardly for a urine sample had seemed hilarious. She would have been mortified in the past, but this morning she had giggled so much that she'd found it almost impossible to pee into the cup, with Sherlock waiting impatiently outside.

Molly had always known that Sherlock didn't respect her, but the fact that he so clearly thought her insane and disregarded her awful experience as hysterics had all but eradicated her attraction to him. Now she could see him as he was, a pompous, megalomaniac sociopath. But, a little voice in the back of her head reminded her, he did have the most magnificent cheekbones.

Lost in thought, Molly tripped over a tussock of grass and landed on her knees, her copy of Wuthering Heights flying out of her hands. She dissolved into helpless giggles.

God. Maybe she really was hysterical.

"Are you alright miss?"

Molly looked up.

777

"I'd heard you was coming, and when I saw the car outside I thought that must be you lot up from the city. Never see a car that clean in this town and that's for sure. And then when I saw young miss Hooper trippin' about up by the lake I thought, that's a girl not from round here I thought, now that's a girl who don't know two ways around a tussock."

The groundskeeper, James Coulter, was huge in an almost geographical sense. He towered over even Sherlock, and was about four times as wide. Molly had met him out by the lake and had the presence of mind (barely) to bring him to the house to meet Sherlock (who was now sitting opposite him, legs crossed, fingers steepled, wincing at every grammatical flaw in his tirade).

"You were here the morning they found Lord Ravensdale?" John asked helpfully, trying to steer the man in the right direction before Sherlock snapped at him.

"That's right. I had to break the door down, see, it'd all swelled up with the damp. Terrible thing it is, Sir dying like that. Just retired, and he were always very decent to me too. Always a bottle of whiskey at Christmas. I don't touch the stuff, mind, not wanting to go the way of me father, but Ethel, that's the missus, she always found it useful for her preserving..."

"Stop!"

Everyone turned to look at Sherlock, who was pinching the bridge of his nose like a man trying to quell a migraine.

"Stop." he said again. "He didn't do it."

"Sherlock," John muttered, "He's been here five minutes, what makes you so-"

"One, lack of motive," Sherlock said without raising his head.

"Two, lack of intellect."

"Sorry," John said to Mr. Coulter, who continued to grin amiably.

"Three, character shows an excess of loyalty."

"Come on Sherlock, that can't be..."

"Four, Mr Coulter has an alibi."

John looked surprised.

"Does he?"

"Do I?" Asked Mr. Coulter happily.

Sherlock rose from his chair and grabbed a stack of papers from the coffee table.

"Local newspaper," he said, "Gets delivered weekly. Usual stuff, sheep shearing championships, wellington boot tossing competitions, and -" He selected one and held it up, "Darts."

The front page showed a picture of a smiling James Coulter holding a trophy in the shape of a dart board.

"Local man wins local darts championship," Sherlock read. "The final of the Somerset darts championship fell on Wednesday 4th July. In a tense competition, the likes of which has never before been seen in Somerset, the contestants played through the night, with the victor Mr James Coulter (52) beating his adversary Mr. Christopher Pentreath (57) in the final round with a stunning ton 80. The game drew to a close at six in the morning-"

Sherlock stopped.

"Six in the morning," he repeated. "The post mortem put the time of Lord Ravensdale's death between four and five A.M. Mr. Coulter simply was not present. Congratulations on your sweeping victory, Mr. Coulter." Sherlock dropped the newspaper and gave the groundskeeper a terse nod before stalking out of the room.

"Very high strung, those city types," Mr Coulter said, picking up his cup of tea. "Saving the presence of you two of course."

"You've never really seen him do that properly before, have you?" John said to an openmouthed Molly. She shook her head.

"He's very observant."

"That he is." John nodded. "He can see the corner of a newspaper and gather it's significance at a glance. It gets less impressive and more irritating with time, believe me..."

"Is he some kind of savant then?" asked Mr. Coulter.

John had the good grace not to answer, and shrugged.

777

After a late dinner, with darkness just beginning to fall, John and Molly turned in for the night. Molly was clearly exhausted, her eyes beginning to droop halfway through dessert. Sherlock, predictably, hadn't eaten a thing and John had spent most of the meal trying to catch Marion's eye as she served them (with little success).

As they traipsed up the staircase, John caught Molly's arm.

"If anything happens tonight... I mean _anything_, even if it is just a very bad dream... Wake me."

Molly smiled.

"Don't worry about that." She lowered her voice as Sherlock disappeared into his room and shut the door. "I mean, I'm hardly going to go to him am I? He thinks I'm mental."

"Out of all the people I've known," John said grimly, "Sherlock Holmes is the last person with any right to call someone else mental."

Four hours passed before Sherlock's door opened again. He had lost himself at his makeshift chemistry lab, testing the samples for anything untoward, with no success. It was only when his eyes began to sting from focusing on the lens of the microscope that he realised his body was exhausted. Time to take a look around the house, he decided. In the dead of night, the place would be his to explore thoroughly without distraction. He closed the door quietly behind him.

Sherlock paused outside Molly's room. Both her and John kept their doors open. It was part of some agreement they had now. Sherlock could make out the shape of Molly's small form under the sheets. He rested one hand on the doorjamb and seemed to struggle with his thoughts for a moment, before moving on.

The great house was quiet, but not entirely silent. Distant creaks and the clanking of pipes filled the dark halls that seemed to go on forever. Lit by dim lights set into the walls, they were hung with portraits and tapestries. Hundreds of pairs of ancient eyes watched Sherlock as he walked slowly towards the main staircase. The entire house seemed to reverberate with a low, almost imperceptible grey noise.

As he descended the staircase Sherlock stopped. A shiver passed through him. He leaned against the bannister and took a deep breath, rolling up his left sleeve. The skin on his arms was raised in gooseflesh. He was experiencing a pilomotor reflex in response to some impalpable stimulous. Interesting.

Sherlock frowned. He wasn't cold. So what was it? It was almost as though his body was reacting to a fear that his rational had yet to hear about. It had to be a drug. Nothing had shown up in any of the samples from the three of them. Either the drug left no trace at all, which was unlikely, or the elimination rate was unusually high. But if he was clearly still feeling the effects then it couldn't be that. Always in the air, like Baskerville, keeping them constantly on a level... Sherlock made a mental note to call Mycroft to send more equipment.

He reached the end of the staircase and crossed the entrance hall. Sherlock had sourced and studied the elaborate blueprints of the house as soon as he had been put on the case. He knew the place like the back of his hand, on paper. As he reached the half hidden stairs to the basement Sherlock noticed the low buzzing noise rise a level or two in frequency. Before he set foot on the first step, he heard a new noise on one of the upper levels. He cocked his head to one side and listened. The noise came again. Not from the East wing where the bedrooms were, but from the west, and higher up. Footsteps.

Sherlock turned and started back across the entrance hall.


End file.
